


Watch It, Love, We're Sinning Terribly

by AquaWolfGirl



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Drabble, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:55:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5423057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaWolfGirl/pseuds/AquaWolfGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story equivalent of a bag of Hershey kisses. Small little morsels of love, sex, sins and occasional sweetness. Multiple prompts, and multiple alternate universes that will be established with each chapter. If you can't decide whether you'd like canon or AU, this will have both. Chapters will vary in length and depth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kiss Me

**Author's Note:**

> Schoolboy AU: Peter's a student, Killian's a teacher. Somewhat established, secretive relationship.

“These are awful.” 

They’re chalky, and too sweet, and he has to gnaw on them for a good bit before they surrender to his molars. He makes a face at the first, tolerates the second, but gives up on the third and hands the pastel-colored box over to the boy draped sideways in one of his office chairs. 

Peter smirks but takes the box, popping another one of the heart-shaped candies between his lips. Killian hears the sickening ‘crack’ of the sugar falling victim to Peter’s teeth a few seconds later, followed by more muted cracks as the candy gets smaller and smaller in the boy’s mouth. “Suit yourself,” the boy says with a shrug, reading another one before eating it, seemingly deciding its message too boring to be read aloud. 

Wendy had been sweet (pun unintended), giving the boxes of candy to the class for Valentine’s Day. Killian noticed that Peter’s box came with a few extra hearts doodled next to his name, rather than the one that most of the other students received. He knows he shouldn’t be jealous, not when Peter spends the lunch hour between his legs instead of hers, but it seems he can’t help it. He feels a lot better when Peter snags a marker and makes the hearts into a cock and balls, the mischievous little shit. 

It’s almost shameful how quickly his head lifts at the snap of the boy’s fingers. He looks up from the paper he’s grading, raising an eyebrow in question. Peter somehow manages to look smug, even with his tongue hanging out of his mouth like a dog. It takes a bit of leaning forward, and a bit of focusing, but Killian manages to read the pink heart that sits in the middle of the boy’s tongue. 

“… no,” he finally says, turning back to the paper and marking off another misuse of the nonexistent word ‘alot’. 

He almost yelps as his chair is tugged back, lifting the pen just quickly enough to avoid a large line down the middle of the paper. Killian glares as he finds himself with a lap full of prep boy, noticing Peter's wrinkled white uniform shirt, and that his tie just a bit too loose for standards. 

“I said no,” he tries firmly, but doesn’t do anything to move Peter off of his lap. 

The teen narrows his eyes, heart still on his tongue. The pink-printed ‘KISS ME’ is mocking Killian, as well as those damned green eyes and those sinful lips. 

“It’s too sweet - no,” he insists, and he can smell the sugar on Peter’s breath after eating three of those boxes. He’s unreasonably pissed that Peter claims to have exchanged kisses for candy, even though he knows in the long run it helps their cover. His hands find Peter’s hips, hooking his fingers in the belt loops of the black uniform pants that are just a tad too short for the boy’s long legs. 

It takes just one quirk of that damn eyebrow for him to surge in and capture those lips with his. He regrets it almost immediately. It’s too sweet, tasting of chemicals and sugar, and the candy clacks against their teeth, refusing to dissolve. It’s wet and messy, and Peter’s hips slowly rolling against his aren’t helping one bit. It takes a phenomenal amount of self-control to pull away from him, and even then he doesn’t meet the boy’s eyes. He won’t admit defeat, not quite yet. 

His teeth find Peter’s lip, biting down and tasting iron mixing with the sickeningly-sweet sugar. The combination’s toxic, much like the boy sitting in his lap. He can feel Peter smirk against his mouth, and wonders how the brat had managed to get him to succumb without saying a single word.

“… still godawful,” he mutters against Peter’s lips.


	2. Oil Paint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art School AU: Killian's taking art classes at the local college, and his new assignment is the nude figure and fabric. Peter's his model. Established relationship, quite a bit of cursing. No smut, but naughty nonetheless.

“Would you stop fidgeting?” 

He looks up from the easel to glare at his muse who, in his shifting, had managed to change the folds of the sheet slightly. While it’s not a vital corner of the painting, it’s going to be a pain in the ass to fix. 

Peter glares right back. “Tell me again why a photograph wouldn’t do?” he asks. His voice is saccharinely sweet, and Hook knows better than to test the teenager spread across the white sheet. 

However, just because he knows better doesn’t mean that he does better. 

“Because that’s cheating, and it doesn’t give it as much depth.” Killian returns to the painting, setting about fixing the shadows of the sheet that Peter had wrinkled. 

“Oh, so the high and mighty painter panel will give you a F- for painting from a photograph?” 

He could glare back. He could glare back, and he’d get a glare in return, he knows. But honestly, it wouldn’t get them anywhere and it’s not worth the effort. Instead, he focuses on the painting, mixing his grey with just a bit more blue to darken the tone. He can practically hear Peter’s eyes rolling as he paints over the folds just slightly, fixing them to reflect reality. 

His gaze returns to the expanse of skin before him. Peter’s leaning back on the provided chaise, the couch covered in the white sheet that had been part of the specification. The assignment had been the nude figure, and fabric. 

He had no problem with Peter nude - why would there be a problem when they sleep together almost constantly? The real problem was Peter shifting every 30 seconds and messing up the shadows of the sheet. 

Killian looks up from the canvas, and glares as he notices another shift in the shadows. “Peter.” 

“Killian.” 

“Stop moving.” 

“Stop painting.” 

The boy’s a brat, honestly. As good a model as he can be, the boy is truly and utterly a brat.

He takes a glance at the painting and walks around the easel to adjust Peter’s ankle back to the angle it had been before. “If you can behave like an adult and stop fidgeting, then we can ruin this sheet,” he attempts to bribe as he fixes the fabric, eyes not on Peter.

Before he can truly comprehend what’s happening, the paintbrush he’d tucked into his pocket is stolen, and then there’s a dark blue line across the white sheet. Peter’s smirk is positively evil. 

“Oops.” 

Killian stares at the quite obvious line. “You little shit.” 

“What? Just don’t paint it.” The roll of those bare shoulders should not be as attractive as it is.

“No, Peter, that’s class property. Oil paint is awful to get out, you know this.” 

“I’ll replace it,” the boy says nonchalantly before he starts to draw on his thigh with the remaining paint - probably in an attempt to piss Killian off about ‘wasted materials’. In seemingly no time at all, he has swirls that look like vines up one bare thigh, the end curling around his hip. 

Killian stares at the contrast between the dark paint and Peter’s lightly tanned skin, and goes to get the palette, struck by inspiration. No one else in the class will have anything like this, he’s sure of it. “Here,” he says, offering the section that has the dark blue paint. 

Peter raises an eyebrow, but dips the brush in and continues. When he can’t reach his other side, Killian steps in.

With his own touch, he guesses Peter’d been expecting the cold paint. But when Killian applies the paint, he hears Peter’s hitch of breath. He draws light swirls, curls of dark blue that look like flourishes. With a few more swishes of the brush and a bit of careful shading, it turns into filigree on Peter’s flank. He runs his hand down the bare expanse of Peter’s back before turning him over - he wants this to be a front view. He pays special attention to Peter’s hips, having the paint curl around the bone. He makes it as symmetrical as he can, filigree on each stark hipbone and expanding across the lower stomach. Peter’s abdomen is taught with held breath as the brush moves across his skin, light and swift and really fucking cold.

“Are you done?” he asks through gritted teeth. Killian catches his eye and pauses, brush stilling. 

And then he smirks, looking down to where he can see Peter’s hips have shifted, trying to hide his half-hard cock in the folds of the sheet. 

“This is turning you on, huh?” Killian asks, leaning in a bit, brush abandoned on the sheet. 

“So what if it is?” 

Killian snorts. “And now that you have paint all over you, you’re going to have to wait until I’m finished painting you until I can fuck you.” He emphasizes the word ‘fuck’, elongating the ‘k’ sound as he moves his face closer to Peter’s.

If anyone else had said that to Peter, they wouldn’t have caught the small hitch of his breath, the darkening of his eyes. They would’ve thought he was completely unfazed, unmoved by the word. But Killian knows Peter, and can see the subtle changes, and when he notices them his smirk broadens. 

“Or I could withhold my ass from you for being a fucking tease,” Peter hisses. Killian can see that he’s trying not to let his elbow give out, his arm shaking slightly after reclining on it for so long. 

He guides Peter back against the chaise with gentle hands, careful not to touch the paint on the teen’s skin. “But you wouldn’t,” he mutters. “Because you’re hard, and you want me to fuck you.” 

The glare he gets is completely deserved, and really shouldn’t turn him on as much as it should. 

A leg’s suddenly hooked around his thigh and he’s yanked closer, Peter’s hand at the nape of his neck. “Listen to me, and listen to me carefully. You are going to take a fucking photo, and then you are going to fuck me. I don’t care if its cheating. If you return to that easel I am going to writhe and moan and touch myself until you come and fuck me.” 

Peter’s voice is low and lustful, and Killian manages a smirk as he resists the urge to grind against the teen’s bare hips. 

“Naughty little boy,” he mutters. “All right, fine, let me go so I can get my phone.” When Peter doesn’t move, he wiggles a bit. “Peter, my phone’s in-“   
He feels Peter’s hand slide around to grope his ass through his jeans, and watches the boy’s smirk grow. The weight that had been in his back pocket is suddenly missing, and then Peter has his iPhone dangling by two fingers in front of him.

“Your back pocket.” 

“Little shit,” he says almost affectionately, grabbing the phone before disentangling himself from the teen and walking to stand in front of the easel. 

When he turns, he gives Peter an exasperated look. Despite how interested his cock is by the scene in front of him, he doubts his teacher will appreciate it. 

“Peter, get your hand off of yourself.” 

It takes quite a few tries and him swearing that he’ll suck the teen off, but he manages to get a decent picture with shadows he can fudge for the actual painting. And then he’s over the teen, capturing his lips and not giving a damn about anything else. 

He was right. Oil paint really is a bitch to get off.


	3. High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective!Killian and Stoner!Peter (not really, though).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: explicit sex scene within. Proceed with caution. Or don't, I don't really care, but I thought you should be warned. Perhaps a bit out of character but it's 5 in the morning so eh. I have never smoked weed before, so I turned to Google or memories of friends smoking for most of the information (sorry about the search history, Mom!) If something seems off, please tell me? It's also been a while since I've written sex on my own. I don't think anything is glaringly off but I apologize for anything weird.

It’s the car in the middle of the parking lot that makes him slow down. But it’s the smoke that has him pulling over. 

He’s off work, duty for the day done, but that doesn’t mean that he can’t help. He pulls his car up a few spaces from the other vehicle, and steps out. 

And that’s when he realizes that the smoke isn’t coming from the hood, or the underside, or from the car at all. It’s coming from the teens inside the car. 

The smell of weed hits him like a freight train, and he wrinkles his nose in distaste. All right, so it’s legal and he might have some personal experience with it, but that doesn’t mean he particularly supports it. Especially when there’s enough of it to create that much smoke. 

He walks up to the car, knocking as discreetly as he can on the windshield as the other windows are down. “Do you need help?” he asks over the music that’s playing from the car’s stereo, low and heavy with bass. 

The music cuts off abruptly, and he leans against the side of the car as a teen pokes out of the window. 

His breath catches as he watches smoke curling up from between sinfully red lips, curled in a smirk. He can barely see the kid’s eyes in the light of the parking lot, most of the teen’s face cast in blue shadow by the light of the dashboard lights.

Well, fuck. He never knew delinquents could be attractive.

“I think we’re all right, officer,” is the response, almost purred. The teen shifts more into the light, joint between slender fingers, and Killian notices green eyes rake his form. “Undercover, or off duty?” 

“Detective, actually,” he finds himself replying. “Saw the smoke and the car. Figured I could call you a tow truck or something, or at least get you to your destination.” 

“This is our destination,” the teen replies. He raises a dark eyebrow. “Want to join us?” 

“Can’t,” he replies, pushing off of the vehicle. “Got a dog to feed back at home.” 

“Pity,” is the response, smooth and low. It’s paired with a smirk. “Maybe next time.” 

The word’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. “Maybe,” he replies, giving a short wave before returning to his car. 

He pulls away with one last look at the tendrils of smoke. 

 

The car’s there a week and a half later. He’s still off duty, his German Shepherd trotting along side him for a morning walk. He frowns as he sees the smoke, again, and decides that it’s much blacker than it should be. And this time it really is coming from the hood and not some kid’s mouth. 

He walks over, tightening his grip on the Hook’s leash should he get a bit too excited. He sees the lithe figure leaning against the car, thumbs tapping against a smartphone screen. 

“Do you need help?” 

The teen’s head lifts, eyes surprised before they narrow, and the smirk returns. “I’m starting to think you look for us, detective.” 

“Says the boy using literal smoke signals,” Killian remarks. Hook becomes suddenly interested in the boy, sniffing at the cuffs of his jeans and nosing at his thigh. “Do you have triple A?” 

The kid shakes his head, tucking the phone into his back pocket and reaching down to pet at the pup, ruffling the dark fur. “No. Tow truck should be here in an hour, though.” He grins as the dog licks at his hand, eager for a new friend.

“In an hour,” Killian repeats skeptically. 

“Accident on 3rd and Blanchard.” 

“Ah, right.” He’d heard it on his radio, even though he didn’t have to respond. A simple fender-bender between four or five cars with high maintenance drivers. 

He watches as the kid kneels down, long fingers carding through the fur of his dog. “His name’s Hook.”

“Hook,” the boy repeats, snorting. He looks up at Killian. “Peter.” 

“Killian,” he adds. 

“I know. Some of my boys had a run in with you a month ago.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “Did they now?” Also - his boys?

“March 13th. 7-11.” 

“Ah, yes, the attempted robbery,” he replies, putting emphasis on the word ‘attempted’. 

Peter snorts, moving his hand down to Hook’s chest. Hook rolls over almost immediately, Peter’s fingers rubbing against the fur covering his stomach. “He’s not a police dog?” 

“He tried,” Killian replies. “Failed miserably. Likes people too much.” 

Peter hums before standing. Hook whines softly at the loss, rolling onto his stomach to look up at the teen.   
“Want me to stay?” Killian asks. “It wouldn’t be too much trouble.” 

There’s the smirk again, the kid crossing his arms against his chest as he leans back and pulls out a vaporizer from his pocket. “Unless you’d like to join me, there’s no point.” 

Killian hums. “Not this time,” he replies. 

The vaporizer’s twirled around nimble fingers. “Next time, he says. Not this time, he says. Are you ever going to lighten up a bit, detective?” The kid’s voice is dark and teasing, his smirk not much better. 

“Maybe.” A quick whistle follows. Hook stands, reluctantly, returning to Killian’s side. And then he turns and walks away from the teen whose lips are forming circles and who smells like sunshine and weed. 

 

“Can’t say I wanted to see you here,” Killian says as he slides into the chair across from Peter, holding a small file. 

Peter’s leaning back in the uncomfortable plastic black chair. He shrugs, not fazed in the least by the fact he’s sitting in a questioning room in the middle of the police station. “Not my fault some under my command are idiots.” 

Killian actually snorts at that. “Your command?” he asks. When he doesn’t get an answer, he puts a picture down of two boys in the middle of a convenience store, one holding a gun and the other toting a garbage bag. 

“Care to tell me who they are?” he asks, leaning forward. He doesn’t flinch as Peter moves forward as well, putting only a few inches between their faces. 

“I can’t say, exactly. They have masks on, don’t they?” Peter taunts. 

“For someone who has a ‘command’, you’re shit at keeping track of your people,” Killian retorts, putting another picture from a new angle down. “How about that?” 

This time Peter actually curses, a muttered ‘shitheads’ that’s actually comical coming from those lips. “Yeah, I know them,” he replies, annoyed. 

Killian raises an eyebrow. “And I don’t suppose the information’s free.” 

That puts a smirk on the kid’s face. And it really shouldn’t be as hot as it is. Killian squirms a bit in his seat, and the smirk broadens. Damn it. 

“No, it’s not.” It’s said almost seductively. This kid’s going to be the death of him, he swears.

“And what’s it going to cost?” he asks. 

Peter shrugs, leaning back again. “How about finally joining me?”

“Joining you?” He knows what the kid means, but he also knows that he’s being watched and heard from the other room by David and some of the other officers.

“Wednesday,” Peter supplies. “1. Regular spot. How’s that sound?” 

Killian hesitates for a moment, eyes narrowed, before nodding mutely. He points to the two boys in the picture, and raises an eyebrow.

The smirk that follows makes something hot and uncomfortable settle behind his groin.

 

He leaves Hook at home this time, patting the dog’s head when the pup noses at his shoes curiously. “I’ll be back late, mate,” he warns. “Go play or somethin’.” 

Hook tries to follow, and Killian has to make sure that his nose isn’t in the way as he shuts the door to his apartment as quietly as he can. 

1 in the morning’s a lonely time. There are a few cars on the road, but not many in this small not-quite-a-city. The radio helps to fill some of the silence as he moves in between light and darkness, the streetlights few and far between. 

He pulls into the sad parking lot of the old tattoo parlor, dollar store and beauty salon. There’s a new car this time, a truck. He can see Peter’s lithe silhouette leaning against the back bumper, light brown hair golden in the light of the streetlamp. 

He parks and steps out, hands in his pockets as he approaches. It’s cold for April, the smell of rain in the air. It’ll come in the next few days, he knows, because for now the sky’s dry and clear and dark as ink. 

“I didn’t expect for you to actually show up,” the teen admits, taking in Killian’s appearance. The detective’d thrown on dark sweatpants and a grey t-shirt, finishing up with a black zip-up hoodie. “Did you just get out of bed?” 

“No crime in comfort,” Killian says, used to the teen’s mocking tone by now. 

Peter snorts and unlatches the back, letting the door fall down. He hops up onto it, standing on the bed. Killian follows, climbing up into the truck and watching as Peter settles against the blankets and pillows already set up. 

“Out of curiosity, did you steal this truck?” he asks, settling down against the flannel blankets. He can see the 7-11 bag filled with chips and candy and soda, but doesn’t comment. 

“It’s mine,” Peter replies, rummaging through a worn black backpack. “The Honda was Felix’s.” 

“Ah,” he says, like he actually knows who Peter’s talking about. “Let me guess, another ‘under your command’.” 

Peter’s smirk is knowing. 

“How many boys do you have roped into whatever you’re doing, anyway?” 

“That’ll take a lot more than a night of smoking to get out of me, detective,” the boy replies. “Joint or vape?”

“Vape,” Killian replies immediately. “Feels better on the lungs.” 

The pen’s passed to him. “So you’ve done it before,” Peter observes.

“Mhm.” He puts the pen to his lips and inhales before pulling it away, letting the smoke escape in rings. “A long time ago.” 

Peter takes his pen out, and Killian watches as he puts the device between those sinful lips. He takes another hit from the pen he’d been given, watching as Peter inhales and then lets out out soon after.

“Are you always high?” he asks, bluntly (pun not intended), and watches as Peter snorts.

“Not always,” Peter replies. “I wasn’t when you brought me in for questioning.” 

Killian hums, eyes turning to the sky. There are a few stars out, bright and twinkling, but not many. When he moves his gaze back, he finds Peter much closer than he had been before. 

He raises an eyebrow in challenge, taking a hit from the pen. Peter moves in, lips barely brushing his as he inhales, Killian breathing out. 

He’s grateful he chose sweatpants instead of jeans as Peter moves over him, settling into his lap. Their lips slot together, Killian setting the pen down against the bed of the truck so he has two hands to hold the teen. One hand moves to slip into one of Peter’s back pockets, the other cupping Peter’s neck as they kiss. It’s not particularly neat or romantic - Killian can probably put it up in the top 5 messiest kisses he’s ever received - but it’s hot and heavy and he doesn’t want to stop. 

Peter’s the one to pull away, just a bit. He can feel the teen panting against his lips, catching his breath. After a few moments Killian moves in again, hand finding Peter’s jaw with his thumb moving against the smooth skin. 

Peter’s hands find Killian’s shoulders, steadying himself as he rocks his hips against the detective’s. Killian groans, pulling back before moving in to press kisses against the teen’s neck. 

“You care about being marked?” he mutters, humming as Peter presses against him when his lips touch a particularly sensitive spot. 

“No,” is the breathed response. He can feel Peter reaching for his pen, and guesses the kid’s taking hits as Killian kisses his neck. He bites down on that sensitive spot, right between Peter’s shoulder and neck, and feels the boy buck into him. He smirks, biting down harder until he tastes blood and hears a moan and a muttered “Fuck!”.

He licks at the fresh wound, kissing it almost apologetically before his mouth finds a new spot. He growls as Peter’s t-shirt becomes a problem, and tugs at it in wordless protest. 

The teen pulls back just far enough to let Killian pull the t-shirt over his head, tossing it to the truck bed carelessly. Peter looks thinner in the harsh light of the streetlight, shadows sharp and unforgiving. Killian’s hands roam warm skin, trailing his nails down Peter’s back and taking delight in the shiver that follows. His mouth finds the teen’s shoulder, nipping and kissing and sucking until he’s sure the kid’s going to have marks in the morning. 

He can see Peter in the reflection of the back window, the teen taking hits from the pen almost carelessly as he’s marked. But occasionally he can feel the hitch in his breath, can see it in the reflection as well with the way the slight vapor halts and resumes. 

He ducks his head, lips finding Peter’s left nipple. He can’t really tell whether it’s hard from the cold or arousal, but Peter’s reaction is a sharp intake of breath and a buck of his hips, so he isn’t planning on stopping. He sucks, hard, and hears the sound of the pen hitting the truckbed as both of Peter’s hands find their way into his hair with another muttered, “fuck,”.

Killian chuckles softly against the teen’s skin, feeling Peter’s warning tug against his dark hair, and laps and sucks and even kisses until the skin beneath his lips feels abused. He moves to the other nipple, giving it the same attention until he’s satisfied and Peter’s rocking his hips almost desperately. 

Peter’s fingers are pushing at his hoodie, and he gives in, shedding the garment before draping it around Peter’s shoulders and laying him down against the truckbed. At Peter’s questioning look, he shrugs. “Cold,” is the only explanation he gives before he bends down to capture the teen’s lips again. 

He can taste Mountain Dew - figures that the kid would like the worst soda known to man - and gives in when Peter decides he wants to be the dominant one, letting his mouth practically be assaulted by the teen’s tongue and teeth.

His hands find Peter’s belt, unbuckling and loosening it before he reaches for his fly. He’s waiting for a sign to stop, that the kid doesn’t want to do this, but no sign comes. If anything, Peter’s kissing gets more passionate, more violent, as Killian’s hands settle lower. 

He tugs the teen’s jeans down to his ankles. Peter helps in kicking his Converse off, and Killian guides the pants down the rest of the way, the jeans now abandoned on the truckbed. Peter’s legs immediately hook around Killian’s waist, hips moving up to meet the detective’s. Killian groans, grinding back before pulling away to look down at the teen. 

And damn. He wants this as his phone background, as inappropriate as it would be. Peter looks properly fucked, hair wild and lips swollen and red. The streetlight bathes half of his face in gold, the rest shadowed. Then the kid’s smirking again, and he swears his cock twitches in interest. 

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” the teen demands, rolling his hips against Killian’s in a way that should be illegal, in his opinion. 

“You have lube in that bag?” Killian asks. Peter twists beneath him, giving him a fantastic view of slight muscles and pale skin and that fine ass as the teen grabs the bottle from beneath the pile of chips and sodas. He returns, slipping beneath Killian again and holding it up with a raised eyebrow. Killian takes it from him, setting it aside for now as his lips find the teen’s. 

“I think we’re uneven, detective,” Peter breathes, hands finding the hem of Killian’s t-shirt and pulling it up and over his head. Killian feels the teen’s hands roaming his chest lazily, hips moving slowly against his. 

“Tattoos?” is the question that comes next, and Killian looks down to see long fingers tracing the black marks against his skin. 

“What of ‘em?” 

“They’re fucking hot,” comes Peter’s reply and the detective’s being kissed again, his mouth taken advantage of. The kid’s a spitfire, hands and lips and hips moving all at once and overwhelming the detective as he tries to find a rhythm that works for both of them. His hand slips down, gripping Peter through his black boxer-briefs, and he takes pride in the way the teen keens up against him. 

He tugs down the underwear as best as he can, Peter’s movements helping him along until there’s only hot, smooth skin to touch. And touch he does, hands roaming across Peter’s tight ass and dipping into his cleft until he finds the teen’s hole. Peter’s intake of breath is like a reward, and he smirks against the teen’s lips as he teases him. 

“Fuck,” Peter mutters, hips bucking down against Killian’s fingers. 

“Careful, don’t hurt yourself,” Killian growls, reaching for the bottle of lube. He pulls back, on his knees as he fumbles with the cap and seal. Peter apparently decides he’s taking too long and that it’s a good time to pull his cock out, hands pushing at Killian’s sweatpants until they’re around his thighs. Killian curses, trying to get the cheap seal off as Peter’s hands find his cock. He almost drops the bottle when he feels Peter squeeze him, thumb rubbing along his tip and finding the vein along the underside. 

He finally gets it open and pours a bit onto his fingers, moving back over the teen. Peter’s hands are still on him, stroking him with a smirk as Killian prods to find his hole again. He slips one finger in with ease, raising an eyebrow at the teen as a second slips in with little resistance. Peter moans, trying to force himself onto Killian’s fingers, before realizing that the man’s stopped. Killian continues to look at him questioningly as green eyes find his, and then there’s that damn smirk again as Peter rocks his hips. 

“I might’ve prepared a bit,” Peter admits nonchalantly, and Killian snorts. 

“Little slut,” he mutters affectionately, kissing the teen again and purring when Peter’s legs hook themselves around his hips again, giving him better access. “Condom?” 

“Bag,” Peter breathes, and Killian goes to get the box again. He has significantly less trouble this time, tearing the package open. Before he can put it on, Peter takes it from him, and he feels the teen’s hands on him again. His breath hitches as he feels the teen roll the latex down, giving a teasing squeeze to his sack when he reaches the end. 

“I guessed your size,” Peter admits, lips finding Killian’s jaw, mouth brushing against the rough stubble there. The man’s breath hitches slightly as the teen guides him, legs open and willing. 

“You expected to be fucked,” he observes, pressing his head against the small hole. He pushes in as slowly as he can, the teen’s mouth distracting him as he tries not to cum then and there. 

“Obviously,” Peter mutters against his neck, so damn matter-of-factly it’s annoying. Killian growls, bending to bite at the teen’s shoulder in retaliation. Peter’s nails dig into his shoulders, and Killian can guess that there will be red lines there tomorrow morning. 

He fills the teen, waiting half a beat and watching as Peter leans back, eyes closed. His lips find the boy’s jaw, pressing kisses to the underside and smiling as Peter hums softly in satisfaction. 

“I would’ve joined you that first day if I’d known this would come out of it,” Killian admits, starting to rock his hips. Peter’s legs tighten around him, and his eyes open again, finding Killian’s.

“Really,” Peter asks, less of a question and more of an acknowledgement as his nails dig into Killian’s shoulders. One hand moves to clench in the hair at the nape of the detective’s neck, the other still clenching his shoulder. Killian moves with him, Peter’s own movements helping to set a rhythm. 

Killian tries to get a moan out of him, or any sound at all, really. It takes a good bit of thrusting and angling and trying before Peter’s harsh breaths turn into grunts, and then finally Killian gets a gasp and a moan and he can feel where Peter’s nails break the skin of his shoulder. 

He smirks as Peter tugs him down for a rough kiss, adjusting his hips and trying to angle that way again, being rewarded with a moan against his mouth. He can feel the ridges of the truck bed biting into his hand, can feel the heat of Peter’s body beneath him and the slickness of the teen’s mouth against his. He can smell the weed - whether its from their activities or Peter’s previous ones, he can’t really tell. The early April air’s cold against his bare back, and he’s suddenly grateful that Peter didn’t tug his sweatpants entirely off. He feels a bit of wind and presses closer to Peter, wanting to shield him from the cold. Peter doesn’t complain, arching against him and clinging closer. 

He supports himself as best as he can and reaches down to grasp the teen’s cock, thumb brushing along the underside. It’s not long before he feels Peter cumming, knowing by the clench around his cock and the cum filling his hand. Peter pulls away from the kiss, mouth finding Killian’s shoulder and biting hard. Killian finishes with a groan, hips stuttering as he goes over the edge of his orgasm.

He can feel Peter’s lips against his shoulder and hums softly, lips finding the teen’s jaw in return. The hands that were digging into his back and neck release a bit, the hand in his hair moving through the dark strands. He moves his hand from where it’s holding him up, pulling out and taking the condom off. He dumps the plastic bag out, putting the condom in it and finding a pack of tissues in the stash that had probably been stolen. He wipes the teen up as best as he can, putting the tissues in the now deemed trashbag with the condom before looking down at Peter. 

The kid looks properly fucked, legs still open and body still splayed. Killian can see the darkening bruises on his chest and shoulders and neck, and feels a sick sense of pride at knowing he was the one to make them. He tucks himself back into his underwear and tugs his sweatpants up before lying back down beside the teen. Peter’s already grabbed Killian’s t-shirt, pulling it on over his bare body for warmth. Killian sees that the hem comes down to the top of Peter’s thighs, not covering much at all, and wonders if he’ll ever be able to get a picture of it for future wank material. 

The teen’s smirking, again, as Killian props himself up on his elbow and looks down at Peter. 

“You knew this was going to happen,” he says, confirming what he realized when they shotgunned earlier that night.

“You walked out of the interrogation room a bit awkwardly,” Peter admits, and Killian snorts. 

“I’d hoped you wouldn’t notice.” 

The teen just pulls him down for another rough and biting kiss. Their teeth clash and it’s a bit painful, and Killian can still taste Mountain Dew, but it’s delicious and he doesn’t pull away until he absolutely has to.

“Next time,” Peter mutters against his lips, “we’re doing it in your bed. Because this truckbed hurt like a bitch.” 

Killian’s chuckle seems far too loud in the silent night, but he pulls the teen closer anyway and kisses him until his lips hurt, and continues even after that.


End file.
